In Your Hands, Your Thoughts
by Val-Creative
Summary: Yuri cooks piroshki. He knows everything's a mess on the counter-tops, but Otabek is late. /Canon AU. Otayuri. Yurabek. Oneshot.


**.**

 **.**

Yuri knows everything's a mess on the counter-tops, but Otabek is _late_.

It's only been fifteen or so minutes, but Otabek rarely ever forgets to calling him when he is. The weather in Moscow gets reported with below freezing temperatures, along with warnings over severe ice on the roads. Then again, Otabek isn't used to driving his motorcycle through the snow _and_ ice like this.

The last batch of piroshki ends up frying to a golden brown. Yuri dumps them onto the paper towels, allowing each hot, fried portion to drain. He then glances at his cellphone impatiently, moving his skillet back onto the oven-top.

He and Otabek have been friends for two years. Well, Otabek _asked_ if they were gonna be friends—and Yuri found himself accepting without a second thought. Nobody has ever been so straightforward with him. Nobody has ever treated him like an equal, unquestioningly, and respected Yuri's thoughts and his space.

It's about damn time someone had…

He's _still_ late.

When his apartment's bell rings, Yuri stomps over and throws up the door, immediately getting blasted in the face with wintery air. There's flecks of melting snow clinging to Otabek's dark hair. The other, taller boy stoops inside the heated, brightly lit corridor, lowering his shoulders. Yuri tries to not get distracted.

"What took you so long?" Yuri tries to _not_ snap irritably at him. "I just got done."

Otabek brushes off his leather jacket, more snowflakes falling and melting to the rug. "Sorry," he murmurs, face expressionless as his words. "There was an accident on the way here. I needed to take a shortcut."

"You didn't call, Beka. What if you had gotten into an accident?"

Otabek's dark eyes seem to glint amused. For just a minute. "Were you worried that I had?" he asks quietly, slipping off the heavy, black biking jacket when Yuri motions towards the hanging rack.

" _No_ —of course I wasn't," Yuri announces, rubbing at his flour-speckled nose with greasy, flour-speckled fingers.

His scoff feels less genuine than he means it to be. He walks back towards the apartment's kitchen. The mixing bowl and saucepan, as well as the wooden mixing spoon, already collected, left inside the sink to wash. Yuri scrubs off his hands, and rinses, pulling off the elastic, green band holding up his blond hair.

When he turns to grab the piroshki, Yuri bumps into Otabek standing behind him. "You _can_ sit down, you know," Yuri grumbles, maneuvering around him. He peeks out of the corners of his eye as the other boy silently shrugs, eyebrows raising. Otabek chooses the seat right near the kitchen island.

Yuri snatches up a wicker basket, lining it the paper towel and gently placing the food inside.

"They're kinda hot, so— _SHIT_!" he yells, nearly stepping on his long-haired cat. Sasha darts around his feet and vanishes into another room, and for a short, panicked minute, Yuri thinks he's gonna end up crashing on his ass right to the floor. With piroshki flying out of the basket and through the air like snowflakes.

Before that happens, he feels Otabek grabbing on from behind. His fingers stabilized Yuri's hips, keeping him upright. "Are you alright, Yuri?" Otabek's voice rumbles with concern.

Yuri can't see his face, but he's sure as hell glad Otabek can't see his. He hates, _hates_ blushing when embarrassed. It's always ugly to him—a reddening, hot color covering Yuri's skin.

" _Yeah_ …"

Maybe he's thinking too hard about it.

Yuri takes in a deep, tightened breath. He proceeds to sit on top of a now bewildered, frowning Otabek, stretching out his legs in front of him and over Otabek's right leg.

"Try one." Yuri presents out the wicker basket, meeting his companion's eyes and also frowning. Otabek does, taking a bite of the crispy, oniony piroshki. " _Well…_ what do you think?" Yuri asks, a little more eager.

Otabek's lips twitch upwards.

"It's very good, thank you," he replies. His tone coming off polite as usual, but sounding genuine about the praise.

Yuri visibly relaxes.

"Grandpa taught me his recipe when I was younger. I really wanted to learn," he explains. At the slightly curious look, Yuri wrinkles his nose as if offended by the implications. "I don't cook all of the time, but…"

"You don't seem like you would," Otabek speaks up, swallowing down another bigger bite.

There's the faint, encouraging smile again, and Yuri's stomach feels _light_. Swimmy.

"This is the first time I've cooked for someone who wasn't Grandpa. Or my coaches… was it really good?"

Otabek nods.

"May I have another?"

It's the right answer. Definitely the _right_ one needed.

Yuri holds out the basket again, his embarrassment dwindling off, but a light, pleasant flush stays on his features.

He's still seated in Otabek's lap, but the other boy isn't complaining or shifting Yuri's weight around. Otabek's arm already slung comfortably to his back.

They sit in a mutual hush for a while, with the exception of Yuri's cellphone vibrating with new texts. He doesn't bother with it. Yuri knows he's getting distracted again, but it's… fascinating the way Otabek eats his second helping of the meat-filled piroshki with delicacy and appreciation.

Maybe it's not the _way_ he eats that's fascinating, because that sounds weird.

Yuri doesn't wanna be a weirdo. Otabek is a friend. That's a good way to ruin a friendship… to be attracted to the way someone eats. Otabek pops the rest of it into his mouth, staring up thoughtfully and examining Yuri.

"Are you going to kiss me or not?"

Despite his heart _leaping_ inside his chest, Yuri plays it off with a huffing exhale. He resists the urge to fold his arms, or to frown at the not-so-obvious teasing from Otabek's gaze. "You don't have to say it like that…"

He's nervous, but in the good kind of way. Like before getting on his favorite roller-coaster. Like before stepping onto the ice, with the bright, white spotlights glaring into Yuri's eyes, with everyone cheering around him.

Yuri's hand fists into the woolen material of Otabek's sweater, when the other boy tilts his chin, never breaking eye-contact.

It's a _challenge_ between them, in a way. Otabek has been doing this since the beginning, hasn't he? Challenging Yuri on equal grounds, making him realize Yuri deserves more out of life, out of his friends. Helping him. Inspiring him, and never asking for something Yuri couldn't do.

He can do this—he _wants_ to.

Yuri's eyelids flutter shut, and _dammit_ , he goes too fast. The tip of his nose nose awkwardly bumps to Otabek's cheek. Yuri curses loudly, feeling his embarrassment rising again. He considers retreating from the kitchen at this point, until Otabek leans in, bumping his nose gently, purposely against Yuri's cheek.

Their faces don't separate from the close proximity, with mouths parting open in anticipation and eyes lidded. Yuri imagines tipping his head, grazing their lips… if Otabek's lips are as _warm_ as his exhales…

"Thought you wanted to be friends."

Yuri's voice sounds low and soft, echoing like a lost birdsong.

"When we were in Barcelona… kissing you did cross my mind," Otabek admits. Yuri's pale fingers clench in deeper into his sweater, urging more of an answer. "I didn't think you wanted to. So I didn't ask."

"I didn't," Yuri tells him firmly, pulling Otabek back down when he turns away. "I… want to now."

The verbal confirmation does help, easing his companion's tensing muscles. It brings a smirk to Yuri's lips pressing fully against Otabek's mouth, loosening a sigh out of him. If Otabek needs to be reminded again, Yuri can do that.

Any time.

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 _Yuri on Ice isn't mine. I swear I'm gonna use all of my love of Viktuuri I've got inside me and write a new thing... but FIRST! I had to try out my brand new OTP. And I'd like to give the big ole MIDDLE FINGERS to the antis bc there's too many that exist and unfortunately are in this fandom. I have not survived every horrendous thing life has thrown at me to have to listen to whiny, entitled brats tell me what I can or cannot ship tbh! C:_

 _If you are coming into this fic unsure of your feelings, I really hoped that you enjoy what you read! If you are a shipper: YOU ARE VALID. YOUR SHIPS ARE ALWAYS VALID. ESPECIALLY TO ME. IT DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TO BE THIS SHIP. IT DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TO BE A SHIP I LIKE. YOUR SHIP IS STILL VALID! THIS IS WHAT FANDOM IS SUPPOSED TO BE. THIS IS HOW WE EXIST HARMONIOUSLY AND TOGETHER. I hope you enjoyed this and any comments/thoughts are appreciated!  
_


End file.
